Break in Case of Emergency

by Brian Francis

  Not that I’d know. Not that I’d know anything.

  “I don’t think you should go back tonight,” I say. “It’d be better if you went back in the morning.”

  He gives me a look and I realize how my words sound. What he thinks I must mean.

  “I don’t mean it like that,” I say. “I know you have a girlfriend. And I’d never . . .” My words trail off as I try to find the right ones.

  “I can’t stay,” he says. “I mean, I can. For, you know, a while. But not overnight. I have to be at the farm first thing in the morning.”

  “Right,” I say. “Is there a coffee maker at the cabin?”

  “Beats me,” he says. “I don’t drink coffee, anyway. Only beer. I’ve got some in the trunk. We’ll have a couple before I head back. Besides, it’s already two o’clock. We won’t have much time, anyway.”

  Much time for what?

  It gets quieter. The dings of the gravel against the car seem to soften. I imagine deer cocking their heads outside.

  I want Mike to stay. I want to be with him. I don’t care about his girlfriend. I don’t have time for guilty feelings. All I know is that I don’t want him to go.

  I need to feel close to someone. To break down the brick walls surrounding me. Even if it’s only for one night.

  “Maybe one beer,” I say and reach over to place my hand on his. He looks over at me again, a half-smile on his face. I want to feel what I’ve been searching for for so long. A connection. To feel whole again, instead of in pieces. I want to feel loved, even if it’s only for a few moments. I’ll take whatever I can get. If that means sex—and if that’s what Mike wants—I’ll do it. There’s nothing left for me to lose, anyway.

  “There,” Mike says and points.

  A sign with a painted arrow pops up in the headlights. He turns, and the road gets narrower. The car dips and rises. We seem so close to sliding over the edge. I ask him to be careful and squeeze his hand.

  “I could do this blindfolded,” he says, but he sounds nervous.

  I see the Richardsons’ sign. Mike turns right and then the cabin appears in the beam of the headlights. He stops the car. We get out. The air is cold and there are no sounds except for our feet on the gravel. Even though I can’t see the trees, I can feel them around us, leaning in.

  “We’re here,” Mike says.

  * * *

  The cabin isn’t as nice as I remember it. Not that I’m expecting a palace. The Richardsons aren’t rich, after all. But I was expecting something a little more picturesque. A stone fireplace and a fur rug. A glass-eyed moose head staring back from the wall. There’s none of that. The cabin smells like a book left out in the rain. Wood panelling covers the walls. There are two tiny bedrooms. An even tinier kitchen. It’s cold too. Colder, it seems, than the outside.

  Why did I imagine something different? I’m disappointed, but it will have to do.

  “We can light a fire,” Mike whispers, and even though I’m tempted to ask him why he’s whispering, I know why. It feels like something we should be doing.

  After he gets the fire going in the wood stove, he goes to get his beer and my luggage from the trunk. I’m sitting on the couch, covered in a thin blanket that smells like mothballs. There’s no electricity, but Mike found a kerosene lamp. It’s sitting in the corner, a small, glowing sun.

  Mike comes back and hands me a beer. “Open it carefully. It’s been bouncing around.”

  I do as he tells me. The can hisses as I crack open the tab. Mike’s beer fizzes out and he makes a loud slurping noise as he sucks back the foam.

  “This is my dad’s beer,” he says. “Tastes like piss, but it’s beer.”

  I agree about the piss part. It doesn’t help that the beer is lukewarm.

  He sits down beside me on the couch. The weight of his body causes mine to tilt toward him.

  “Mission accomplished,” he says. “We’re like Bonnie and Clyde.”

  I don’t know who they are but don’t bother asking. I’m still surprised that we pulled it off, that we’re sitting here, side by side, in the middle of the night, in this cabin. But my plan has only just begun.

  The label on the bottle in Mr. Whitlock’s drawer read Zopiclone, which seems like a nice name. Something you’d call a dinosaur. The instructions were to take one tablet at bedtime as needed for sleep. I’m assuming twelve pills are enough to do the trick, but I can’t say for sure and it’s not like you can look these sorts of things up at the library. And it’s not like I could ask Mr. Whitlock.

  “So, what will you be doing up here?” Mike asks.

  “Thinking,” I say. “Getting my life on track.”

  He takes a long gulp of beer. “You must need to think through a lot to want to come up here. Most people do their thinking at school. Or in a park.”

  “Trisha said you come up here by yourself sometimes. Do you come to draw?”

  His head snaps toward me. “How do you know I draw?” he asks before turning away. “I don’t like talking about it.”

  “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Does it help you think?”

  “Maybe,” he says, looking down into the open hole of his beer can. “Drawing makes my mind go blank. It’s the only time I can shut off my thoughts.”

  “Do you have bad thoughts sometimes?”

  “Are you my shrink now?”

  “No. I don’t mean to pry. I have no business asking. Not anymore. Now that we’re not . . . you know.”

  I take another sip of beer. “What’s her name?”

  “Who?”

  “The girl you’re dating.”

  He rubs his hand against his mouth, like he’s trying to brush something away. “Yeah, about that. Truth is, there is no girl. I sort of made that up.”

  “Why would you lie?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe because you ditched me for no good reason. Maybe I wanted to hurt you a little. The way you . . . Never mind.”

  “The way I hurt you?” I ask.

  “I’m not talking about it, so you can ditch the questions, Toby. I’m fine. No big deal.” He clears his throat. “Should get going. Sun’s going to come up soon.” But he doesn’t move. “When do you want me to come back?”

  He can’t leave. It’s too soon.

  “Tomorrow,” I say, trying to make my voice sound calm. “After your shift at the farm.”

  “You sure you’re going to be all right? I still think this is kind of weird. Then again, you’re a female, and experience has taught me that girls do a lot of fucked-up things.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I say.

  “Okay, then,” he says. He gets up and slowly walks toward the door. I follow him. He’s leaving, but he can’t. Not yet. Not until I try, one last time, to feel something. To be reminded what it’s like to be loved. To hear someone breathing and to hear their heart, thumping, like a spoon against a bucket. And now that I know he doesn’t have a girlfriend, it opens the door wider. It’s now or never.

  “Mike?” I ask.

  He turns around. I know what I have to do to get him to stay. So before he can say anything, I start kissing him.

  Chapter 21

  His mouth tastes like an ashtray. And beer. It’s a familiar taste. Mine probably isn’t much better, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care. He slides his tongue into my mouth, a thick, blind worm. It makes me feel powerless, as though Mike is eating me, taking me over.

  I remind myself to not overthink the moment, and how can I do that if I’m thinking about Mike’s tongue? His hand goes to my breast, kneading it and bringing his fingertips to a point, like he’s trying to draw something out. I’m glad I’m wearing a bra; otherwise it would hurt. His other hand is on my lower back, pressing me into him. Not too firmly, but enough.

  We stumble backwards and fall onto the couch. I’m sitting on his lap, my legs on either side of his. We’re still kissing but we’re taking breaks and Mike keeps sniffing my neck. It’s a bit weird. I’m not wearing any perfume. Maybe he�
�s drinking me in. That’s a phrase Trisha read in one of her mom’s dirty paperbacks. Mrs. Richardson used to keep them under her bed. Trisha had all the sex-scene page numbers memorized and would read the passages to me.

  “His tongue darted inside her,” she read once.

  “Inside her what?” I asked. All I could picture was a tongue popping up and down like a mole head in the Whac-A-Mole game at the fair.

  “Her vagina, stupid,” Trisha said. “Whenever they say, ‘inside her,’ they’re talking about her vagina.”

  “He’s sticking his tongue there?” I found this really disturbing.

  “Of course,” Trisha said. “That’s what adults do.”

  I’m nervous that Mike is going to ask if he can dart his tongue inside of me, like some kind of soft jackhammer. I can’t imagine letting someone’s face get that close to me. Especially down there.

  His hands are reaching up the back of my shirt now. He’s making little grunting sounds, like he’s trying to push something out. It’s hard for me to see his face, but I want to. I want to see his expression.

  “We should stop,” he says into my neck. I can feel the vibrations of his voice under my skin.

  “We can if you want,” I say. “Do you want to stop?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “Okay. Do you have something?”

  I always wanted to ask my mom why she was so reckless the night she got pregnant. Why didn’t she take precautions? Why did she give in without thinking of the consequences? But now, as I wait for Mike to answer my question, I begin to understand her a little more. My father was leaving. My mom was in love. And love can make you believe any lie. Or bend the lie enough so that it becomes the truth. Or what you want the truth to be.

  Will I still have sex with Mike if he has no protection? Does it even matter?

  He opens his wallet and brings out a foil square. He stands up and I can see the curve sticking out under his pants. He turns his back. I hear the zip of his jeans and then watch as he fumbles with something, muttering under his breath. He inhales deeply, exhales, and turns around. I really don’t want to see it. I’m too nervous. The erect penises I’ve seen in pictures always seem so serious and unfriendly.

  But when Mike turns around, it doesn’t look serious at all. It looks green.

  “I got the condom on St. Patrick’s Day,” he says.

  “Oh,” I say. My first—and only—penis is going to be green. I’m trying not to laugh. It wouldn’t be a nice thing to do. Mike’s penis points to the right, as though it’s more interested in something happening in the corner. Out of his pants, it doesn’t look as big.

  Mike takes a step toward me, his arms at his sides, hands turned up and slightly open. The green penis dips and bobs like it’s tied to an invisible string that someone keeps pulling. Everything seems so stupid. His hands go to my shoulders, his lips back on mine; his kisses are more tender, closed, but still urgent. I feel his penis on my thigh. Then his hands are on my buttons and he’s trying to get them undone. He slips my shirt over my shoulders and it makes a soft whisper as it falls to the floor, an angel surrendering. Mike’s kisses are becoming more urgent. Harder. He’s a train picking up speed.

  We’re at the foot of the bed now. I can feel the mattress against my calves and for a moment, I think about the grass beneath the evergreens, how I wanted to feel the grass against my legs as I died. Maybe it would’ve been better to stick to my original plan. But it’s too late now.

  Mike’s working my bra clasp. The sound of our kissing starts to bother me. Like a suction cup pulled off a bathroom wall over and over. I can’t do this. I can’t allow anyone inside of me, even if it’s my last opportunity. I’m afraid that if I let Mike inside, he’ll know. About my secret. My shame. My darkness. What I plan to do.

  “Stop,” I say. I’m afraid he won’t hear me. Or pretend not to. But he pulls his face away. He’s so close, his face is a blur. I can only focus on his nose.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks.

  “I can’t do this,” I say. “I’m sorry. The time isn’t right.”

  “You sure?” He sounds so disappointed I almost change my mind.

  “Yes. I’m sorry.”

  He sits down on the bed, his green penis still bobbing. “I had a feeling this was too good to be true. You really know how to play games with a guy, Toby.”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask, even though I already know.

  “First you make me think you like me, then you tell me we need to break up for no reason. Then you pretend I’m some kind of mutant that you can’t stand the sight of. Then you ask me to drive you to my parents’ cabin, so you can think. Then you start kissing me. And now you’re closing up shop. Again. I can’t figure you out.”

  “I can’t figure myself out,” I say, and then I start to do the worst thing I could possibly do. I start to cry.

  “Hey,” Mike says, putting his arm around me. “What’s going on?”

  How can I begin to tell Mike everything when I can’t even find the words myself? “It’s nothing,” I say, wiping my eyes and trying to regain my composure. “There’s just been a lot going on lately.”

  “Does this have something to do with the visitors you had the other day?”

  “That was my father,” I say. “It was the first time I met him. It turns out he’s a drunk asshole who doesn’t give a crap about me.”

  “Who was that other guy?”

  “His manager.”

  “No shit? What does your dad do? Is he a boxer or something?”

  “God, no.” I can’t tell Mike. He wouldn’t understand. “Other stuff.”

  “I’m sorry your dad is an asshole,” Mike says. “Most dads are.”

  “Do you really believe that?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. I’m just trying to make you feel better.”

  “I know.” I look down at his green penis, which looks more like a gherkin pickle now. It seems so sad. “And I’m sorry about everything. The way I’ve been acting. It’s nothing to do with you. It’s all me. As usual.”

  “It’s fine,” he says, even though I know he’s lying.

  “Can I ask you one more favour?”

  “Sure.”

  “Can we just lie here, together, for a little while? Could you put your arms around me and just say nothing?”

  So we do.

  * * *

  It’s nice having him here, next to me, listening to his breathing, the thump of his heart. This will be my last memory of him and his last memory of me. I hope he holds it close in the years ahead.

  “I still can’t believe you ever liked me,” I say.

  “Why would you say that?”

  “I don’t think of myself as very likeable.”

  “That’s stupid. Of course you are.”

  “Just know that I liked you. I still like you, very much.”

  “I like you too.”

  I don’t want him to go, but I’m nervous he’ll get caught. So I tell him he should head out.

  “Yeah,” he says. “I should hit the road.”

  “Make sure you’re on time for work,” I say. “Make sure Grandpa Frank sees you there right away.”

  He sits up. “Why?”

  “I don’t want you to get into trouble.”

  “I don’t give a shit about that.” He pulls his T-shirt over his head and I see how skinny he is. He’s nothing more than a little boy. Who smokes and drives a rust-stained car and draws dirty pictures of big-boobed women in superhero costumes. My heart cracks.

  I need Mike to be seen because I don’t want anyone thinking he had something to do with my death. I know what it looks like. A teenaged boy and girl. A middle of the night drive to a cabin. One comes back, the other doesn’t. But there’s a letter in my pocket, explaining everything. There’s no chance of Mike getting blamed.

  He’ll wonder if he could’ve stopped me. He’ll search for clues. Something he could’ve said. But there’s nothing. I wrote that in my lette
r. There’s nothing anyone could’ve done to stop me. I place my hands on either side of his face. “I want you to know I had the best time tonight.”

  “Really?” His mouth falls open in a surprised way.

  “It was nice,” I say and lean forward to kiss him on the lips. It feels different than it did before, when we were making out. More real. The backs of my legs tingle.

  “I’ll come back tomorrow,” he says. “After work. Will that give you enough time?”

  “I think so.”

  “What happens here? With us?” His finger moves from his chest to mine.

  I suddenly feel stupid. “I guess we can see about that.”

  “Okay,” he says, and his mouth is somewhere between a frown and a smile. It’s not the answer he’s looking for. I wish I could tell him something different, but that would be cruel. And a lie.

  “Drive safe,” I say.

  I watch from the window as he backs up his car. Maybe I should go out and guide him, but I decide he’s all right. He’s a good driver. Mike will find his way. I have a very firm belief in that.

  After the sound of Mike’s car has faded, I turn around to face the cabin. Now, it’s only me.

  The time has come.

  Chapter 22

  The day my mom died, I told myself I was looking for a girl pirate costume. That’s why I went to Greer’s. But it wasn’t true. Not the real truth. I’d gone to the variety store because I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want to see my mom. I loved my mom, but I was tired of worrying about her. I was ten, and most kids my age had parents who did the worrying, not the other way around. I wanted a mom who was like other moms. One who didn’t wear gloves or hear voices. One who had a baby after she was married. A mom who had a husband.

  I was tired. Tired of my mom. Tired of myself. Tired of our life.